


Folly for Two, A

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Fiction, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-01
Updated: 2002-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: The story follows Folie a Deux and Pine Bluff Variant. Intended to be a PWP, this story resulted from a combination of bet I had with someone who I told that I could write a Mulder/Scully sex scene to bridge any two episodes. And someone else who was trying to tease me into writing slash





	Folly for Two, A

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Folly for Two, A

## Folly for Two, A

#### by Xactly558

Date: Saturday, April 06, 2002 2:26 AM 

TITLE: A Folly for Two  
RATING: NC17 M/M Slash  
CLASSIFICATION: S R A M/Sk  
DATE: Nov 1998 / revised April 2002  
ARCHIVE: Please contact me first.  
AUTHOR:   
SUMMARY: The story follows Folie a Deux and Pine Bluff Variant. Intended to be a PWP, this story resulted from a combination of bet I had with someone who I told that I could write a Mulder/Scully sex scene to bridge any two episodes. And someone else who was trying to tease me into writing slash..  
It was supposed to be a little game to play with some slashy stereotypes but something went wrong and it turned moody. And to anyone who knows me by my alter-ego - hi guys! 

* * *

I'm not happy about this. Happy. There's a word. I'm not even comfortable with this. I don't know what to say to him. Even my AD voice and my AD demeanor won't help, not once he's looked at me. 

Mulder glides into the office. He should be cowed and scared in my presence, after the week he's had. Or bitter and resentful, I should see anger in his eyes. Some reaction, Mulder! Show me some reaction, and I can react to you. But he gives me nothing. He glides. Unusually formal, he stands up straight, waiting for my permission to sit. I try not to sigh as I nod him to the chair facing me. He says nothing, leaves the ball firmly in my court. 

"I've spoken to Agent Scully." 

He nods. 

I see, so he's going to make me do the talking. I suppose that's fair, every word he said on the Pinkus case got him deeper in the shit. "She's not sure what she saw." 

He nods, gives me nothing. 

"You're discharged from hospital?" Stupid question. As if I don't know, he's sitting across the desk from me. 

He nods. 

Damn it. Give me something Mulder. Don't make me work for it. This isn't easy for me. "What did you see?" 

"When?" 

He's definitely not going to make it easy. Why should he make it easy? I'm choking up even as I think about the words. Jesus. For all men would be cowards if they dared. I should say what I mean. Really, I should - I should clear the air. He faced it, I should be able to face reminding him. You remember, Mulder, at the hospital, in the bed, the one where they strapped you down so you couldn't cause trouble. "At the hospital." 

"An intruder." 

"Describe him." He'll recognize the interrogator in my fast response. 

"It was dark, I was on medication. I didn't have such a clear view as Agent Scully. I'm a less reliable witness." I recognize the cynically experienced courtroom operator in his reply. 

"And in that man's office?" 

"I told you what I saw." 

"A monster?" 

"That you didn't see, sir." 

"Make this easy for me." 

"I can't. It isn't." 

You're a bastard Mulder, a cold hearted bastard. Tell me a story that I can believe. Lie to me. Damn it. Just let me give you your badge back with a clear conscience. Just make me trust you one more time, convince me that giving you your gun won't kill someone, won't kill you. 

"I'd like to be able to withdraw the suspension, but I need to know what happened." 

He shrugs, his first gesture of weakness, of humanity. But his words, when they finally come, don't help. "You've seen my report." 

"Do you think this man, Pinkus, will kill again?" 

"Yes." 

He leaves me no choice. I believe him, or not. I trust him, or not. I give him a badge and a gun, or not. 

My hand drifts mechanically to the drawer, finds the leather wallet. I open it automatically, not because there are a whole array of wallets in there and I have to select the right one. Just because. Can I see the man across the desk in the image on the badge? I slide the gun and wallet across the desk. 

He watches me as if waiting for some further permission. Ahh. I nod. 

He reaches out, the badge slides back into his pocket in a move so easy it has to be controlled by reflex and instinct not by thought. His hand slips over the gun, I see the instant assessment as he picks it up. Finally an expression of concern drifts over his face. He swiftly checks his first impression. The clip is empty. He looks at me, waits, says nothing. 

I check the drawer again, hand him the ammo. 

Mulder's fingers play over each round in turn, rolling them, testing them as he slips them back into place, checking and inspecting as they slide home. Reflex again, too familiar, too easy. I almost think that he looks relieved for an instant as he puts the gun back into its holster, he quickly schools his expression back to unconcerned. 

"Thank you, sir." 

"We should talk." 

He looks back, a blink of curiosity is the only evidence of his willingness to continue the discussion. But not here? Was that an invitation? 

My fingers almost betray my anxiety as I dig back in the drawer. Casually does it. I hand him the card. 

He nods, tucks it into his pocket. "Is that all, sir?" 

"For now, Agent Mulder." 

I watch him leave, slow enough to appear lethargic, but precise enough to be one hundred percent assured. When he chooses, he has a quiet elegance that can be intimidating, even to me. He chooses now to demonstrate the fact. 

* * *

I nurse the whiskey and wonder if I misunderstood. Or if he did. I like the fire in the firewater, the ice was a distraction. I should be more embarrassed by the puddle forming on the table as the cubes melt, but that seems like nothing compared to the humiliation of sitting here alone, incurable optimist that I am. 

I'm startled by the sudden appearance of another glass on the table, "I didn't order..." Then I spot the second drink on the barman's tray and wave my acceptance of the unexpected delivery, and slowly scan the room. 

Mulder slides into place opposite me without ever actually walking through my field of view. Spooky. His eyes flash. I didn't say that out loud, did I? 

"You know, I don't have to come here to be insulted." 

"Right, you can go anywhere and be insulted." 

He smiles and I'm trapped. What the hell am I doing here. I'm his boss. The desire to run suddenly hits me. Terrifying. Mulder isn't helping my nerves; he's far too calm. Apparently. 

"I won't lie about what I saw." 

I nod. I don't expect him to lie, it's too late, I've already given him his gun. "I don't need you to lie about what you saw. It's what was actually there that concerns me." 

"Physics or metaphysics?" 

"The truth?" 

"We experience the world through our senses. If our senses supply inadequate data, our brain attempts to make sense of it." 

"Did Scully tell you that?" 

"She told me if I lay quiet in the restraints, for long enough, I might get better." 

"She told me that she saw something, but didn't know what." 

"Yeah. That sounds like the thing I saw." 

"Sounded better coming from her." 

"Touche." Mulder raises a glass as a toast. 

He rests his hand on the table. Too close to mine. An invitation. Jesus. My heart hammers. I've seen him look at men. He's seen me. We've exchanged glances. We both know that there's no misunderstanding. If we didn't, there's no way I'd risk this. Christ, am I really contemplating risking this? 

I ask a question to try and bring me back to my senses. "I asked her if you were OK." 

He tilts his head to one side, still not making it easy. Not withdrawing an inch, not offering a path forward. 

I'm the one who has to do the talking. "When you went back to Chicago. I asked her if you were OK." The barest movement of his head orders me to continue; and I can't disobey. "She said you were fine. When I asked her about the autopsy you'd scheduled for her, she seemed surprised." 

Ah, at last a reaction. He blinks, swallows, carefully takes a sip of whatever that stuff is that he's drinking. "She'd already refused to do it." 

Refused? What is he saying. I know there was a second autopsy on the body, days after the first, after Mulder was hospitalized. Best AD demeanor is an essential right now. "So you scheduled her anyway?" 

"I've learned my lesson." 

Jesus. That's a hell of a lesson for one partner to give another one. I try and remember that I'm their boss. "Maybe, I should...." His hand presses into mine, he gives me this determined shake of the head. It's the most animation I've seen from him since they blasted him full of sedatives in Pinkus's office. I stop talking, and let him take over. At least he plans to say something. 

"I think she learned something, too." 

I think back to her hesitation in my office today, the pain in her eyes as she evaded my questions. I nod. Notice that his hand is still resting on mine. I swallow the panic that I feel rising and constricting my throat. He withdraws his hand, but still leaves it too close, just resting there, relaxed on the table. 

He eases back in the chair. "You know, water really is blue. We just get confused because usually we only see thin slices of it. And when it looks blue usually that's just the sky reflecting. But the thing is, it really is blue. How stupid is that? Being a thing that no one can see?" 

That didn't happen. I'm looking around to see who came in, what provoked the shift in the time space continuum. I should have a snappy answer but my brain has just turned to jello. 

He's smiling now, obviously practicing his mind reading technique. "Are you ready to leave?" 

"Giving orders, Agent Mulder?" 

"If you like, sir." 

I follow Mulder's car. 

A quiet motel on the road to nowhere and I wonder what the hell I'm doing here. He smiles as he hands me the suit bag from the trunk of his car. He has an overnight case with him. The joys of being a field agent - ever ready, even with a cover story. And now, I have to commend him, he's nothing if not thorough. He heads to reception and books two rooms and my hand shakes as he hands me the key and I'm relieved to find that he looks a little shaky, too. 

He frowns as he talks. "I need a shower. So do you." 

I wonder if that's an invitation, but his eyes direct me to my own room. 

"I'll see you in fifteen." He points with a movement of his head towards his door, and makes it clear that I'm expected to come and visit him. 

"Sure." What the hell's wrong with my voice? What the hell's wrong with me? Fox Mulder bounces out of the psychiatric ward and he's the one who knows the plot. 

I panic my way through the shower. I've got no idea what to say to him, what he expects me to do, what he wants from me. It's a long time since I've been this nervous about a first night. But then again, it's a long time since I was this sure that I wanted it to be the first night, not the last. 

Squeaky clean. I dress just enough to visit my neighbor. Excess clothing is just a hostage to fortune. Why wear socks, if socks might get left behind? I'm proud of my own rationality. 

Mulder is almost naked when I go to his room and I'm not sure if I remember how to walk. 

He locks the door behind me, slips the chain into place. "No surprises." He murmurs softly. 

Oh hell. He's right. I always thought that I was good at hiding my reactions, good at grabbing a surreptitious eyeful. It's not like those speedos leave much to the imagination anyway. It's not like when he throws his head back under the shower, he chooses to turn modestly away. Hell, why should he? 

It's different this time, different because this time, he won't rinse the shampoo from his hair and disappear. 

He's smiling again. "I meant that's why I'm locking the door." 

Ahhh. Got me. 

He waves his hand. It's an order. I'm being ordered to do what? I'm not used to orders, not in my working life. Certainly not in my private life. But I know an order when I see one, even if I don't know what it means. 

He's still smiling. "No surprises." 

I slither out of my clothes, pathetically self conscious. I try and get some hint of his reaction, glance over my shoulder, where he stands naked, too. He's not even looking at me. I don't know whether I'm pleased, humiliated or just plain angry. 

His hand arrives on the back of my neck and I almost fall over. When it's followed by the wet heat of his mouth, I start to shiver. Jesus, I'm in no condition for a seduction. My cock is already at attention. He is already pushing at an open door. 

This is getting out of hand. I have to get the situation back under control. I have to get me under control. I have to get him.... God damn. He's cheating. His hands slip around me. He flicks me onto the bed. 

He's a lot stronger than he looks. Fuck. He's a lot stronger than he acts. I flattened him in one move in Pinkus's office, gun or no gun. 

Oh hell, wrong thought. I shudder. 

He freezes, his voice is laced all through with panic. "God, I'm sorry, I didn't hurt you, did I?" 

I don't believe he did that. I don't believe that he just apologized. I haven't apologized to him. I thought I was so fucking brave, took on a madman with a gun, a Bureau trained madman with a gun. The thing is, if he wasn't mad, isn't mad, I wasn't brave at all. He was defenseless against me. Just like I now feel defenseless against him. 

I shake my head and he sighs with relief. 

I try to reach for him and it's his turn to shake his head. He slithers out from under my flailing hands, pushes them away with his own. 

His tongue slips across my throat, swirls its way across my Adam's apple and my head falls back. He floats over me and I'm desperate for his touch, for the weight of him. Yet he offers no contact except for his tongue. I reach for him, stretch my arms to wrap around his back and pull him into my embrace. He shivers away from me and I feel like I ought to apologize for thinking about trapping him, for trying to hold him down. 

I don't apologize. I've lost the power of speech. This slithering movement of his has put him back in total control. He slides my legs over his shoulders and uses my disorientation to leverage my body through all the right gyrations to expose me to him. I don't resist. I always resist, that's who I am. I always take control and now, I don't even pretend to resist. 

It's excruciating. It's so good it hurts. And his tongue flicks over places where no one ever ought to think about kissing and I think I'm going to scream. And I know that I should just enjoy this without thinking about what it means, about who's controlling who. But it's not that easy. 

His hand finds some rhythm as it moves over me, it's a rhythm that isn't me, but makes me wish it was. I don't have the power to resist or the power to succumb. He seems to sense my dilemma. His mouth is hot on this weak link of mine. The rhythm of his fingers shifts to my rhythm and I'm lost. 

So powerful, the impact of another's touch. I'm almost crying as I come. My legs flex as the contractions hit. 

And I'm shocked, because he holds me as I buck. And I revel in the confinement his arms supply. 

He rolls me onto my belly and I don't know what to say. This is not my role, not my safe familiar territory. And my movement or my groan must give me away, because Mulder knows. 

Mulder laughs. My God, he laughs. It's such an unfamiliar concept that I'm surprised there's a word for it. 

He throws himself over me, stretches, mimicking and shadowing my pose, matching me flesh for flesh. Rests quietly on my back. Mulder has decided to play the role of comforter, and there's no shortage of irony in the word or the action. Now, I'm the one laughing. 

He lies there, pleasant weight sinking me into the pillows and making me quiet at last. Too quiet. 

"You're tense." He offers softly. 

I don't know what to say. What can I say. Sure, I'm tense. I'm absolutely fucking petrified. And I've got no idea what's got into me. Except that it's him I'm waiting to get into me. 

He eases back from me. I miss the warmth. But I love the softness of his touch along my spine. I relish the close attention to detail as he identifies each vertebra in turn. 

I feel a dribble of something cold trickle down the cleft of my ass. I feel his fingers follow the path the liquid creates. I feel lube and fingers find the place that his mouth already knows. People talk about ass kissers but I bet they don't visualize Fox Mulder. There was no doubt when he kissed my ass who the real boss was. Just like there's no doubt now. He has no uncertainty now either. Two fingers, I guess it's two, find their way inside. 

I have to explain, this isn't me. "I don't...." 

"I know." Soft, ghost of a reply. 

And he starts to pull his fingers away, so I have to talk fast. "No. I mean. I don't normally let..." Not the first time, the first time you demonstrate the rules. Maybe later you dare to role reverse. But the first time is tough enough without mistakes about who's on top. 

"It's a holiday." 

"I'm not usually...." Fuck. Don't make it harder Mulder. I'm trying to tell you something about myself. About my need to control, to be on top. It's not just physical. It's me. About how this is yours tonight. About how much this costs me to give you. And you slip your fingers deep into my body and I swear I can feel them brush against my heart. But you aren't going to hear that from me, Fox. 

"S'Okay." Such a quiet voice, barely a whisper. I feel it on my neck rather than hear it. It's followed by a kiss. One of his hands is already busy, doing good deeds. The other finds a route along my spine that has too many nerve endings to make any kind of evolutionary sense. I'll have to tell Mulder about that. He likes things that don't make sense. Like blue water. I'll tell him. Later. 

He pulls me up to some better position for him. So that now I'm resting low down on all fours and fully exposed for easy access. And I'm again struck by the joy of meeting someone who I don't just overwhelm and eclipse. Not physically, not intellectually, not emotionally. Someone I can't just ignore. 

He's there now, pushing, demanding admission. 

I can't ignore him now. Not that I want to. I want to enjoy this. I've ignored too much pleasure, too many people. 

"Fuck." I bite the pillow as I say the word. 

I feel him tense and still above me. He relaxes, eases back, removes the tormenting pressure from my opening. Impossibly gentle as he strokes my shoulders, breathes against my neck. 

"I'm OK." Did I tell him that? It's a lie, I'm out of practice and my nerves have betrayed me. 

"S'Okay." And I'm stroked by his voice and his hands and his patience as he starts his overtures again. 

He's suddenly, strangely playful and his touch is anywhere except where I'm expecting it. Slowly, subtly, my understanding shifts, I realize that his touch is now anywhere, except where I want it. 

Until at last he's right there. 

This time I'm ready and no rogue thoughts of people ignored and pain endured make me tense, and it still hurts. But the gasp of hurt merges with the gasp of relief and I'm gripping the pillow to keep my grip on reality now. And the burn passes and he sighs his way home. 

There's that rhythm again. That rhythm that isn't me. So slow and so even that it's hypnotic and intoxicating and he's fucking me into some kind of dreamland. And I can't keep my grip on reality so I keep my grip on the pillows. 

He's a swimmer, lap after lap of even pace. He's a runner, the kind who clocks up the miles, not the kind who covers 100 yards in 10 seconds. I should have been warned by that. He pounds me like he pounds the road. His plan is to pound himself into oblivion. 

I buck under him, try to remind him that I'm still here. 

But he cheats. I feel his hot breath in my ear and I tilt my head and he kisses me. Not fair. Not fucking fair. I don't kiss. I scarcely even kissed Sharon. Goodbye pecks on the cheek don't count. And this is a real kiss. A kiss that melts my last reserves of self. 

My breathing fails. And I swear Mulder giggles as he pulls his mouth away. 

"Touch yourself." 

Oh hell, now I remember. The missing link. I let my hand drift to grip my too ready cock and it screams with relief. 

Mulder's left hand is still wearing finger splints and though I turn my eyes away I've already seen that he can't put his weight on it. The poor bastard shouldn't even have been working. I'd laugh if I didn't feel like crying. 

Monsters, I'm your boy! He really pissed me off with that little crack. I give him a soft assignment, a fucking risk assessment for God's sake, a chance to fucking recuperate and he was upset about it. I should have suspended him there and then. 

Fuck. He's speeding up, just as steady but he's just switched up a gear. I'm ready to shatter. The shatter starts here. 

Consciousness is a much overrated condition. And if there's one thing that I now know for sure it's that Mulder knows how to fuck himself into oblivion and will apparently willingly take a passenger along for the ride. 

It takes us a while to remember how to move. He seems to recall the trick first. He's politely fast in the bathroom. And I have this feeling that he's probably more discreet about disposing of anything incriminating than I would be. 

I'm struck by his lack of self consciousness when he returns. Still very naked. 

I head in there myself. I take a little longer to recover my calm haze of indifference. 

Now what? Mulder's run the show so far, set the pace and controlled the agenda. We have two rooms. Is that strictly for appearances. The etiquette eludes me. I'm an Assistant Director of the FBI, you would think I could read the clues for this. 

Unfortunately my protagonist is Special Agent Fox Mulder, master of disguise. 

I head towards the puddle of my clothes on the floor and watch Mulder's expression. 

And there's no disguise in his eyes and I'm shit scared. He wants me to stay. 

I pull a Kleenex out of the pocket of my pants as a cover story in case he was offended by my too fast move to run away. Decide to drape them over the back of the chair as a late attempt to salvage them for use tomorrow. I'll need to go home and change. Maybe I should go home now. I look at the bed and know that I can't go anywhere. 

I just have to slide into the bed and pretend that I haven't seen anything in his eyes. I try to touch him and he wriggles away. Not easy, because the bed isn't that big. 

I don't even know his name. Mulder sounds like the office. Fox might trigger that tense suspicion in his eyes. But there are nothing words that you say to your lover to draw them from their shell, and even I know the best one is their name. And I don't even know his fucking name. 

"Please." It's the only nothing word I can remember. 

"S'Okay." 

Oh yeah, that's right. Everything's OK. You lying bastard. I can feel you, starch stiff muscles, skeleton neat and tidy bones, pulse running over 130. What's normal for you, Mulder? I bet it's not 72 beats per minute? 60? Don't tell me there's anything fucking normal about 130, I bet you don't get there after twenty minutes on the track. And don't blame the fucking. You recovered first. So don't fucking lie. 

And I'm waiting for you to reply to a question I haven't asked. And I think back to what you've said today. And it adds up to zip. You've said nothing all fucking day. I kid myself that we talked before we ended up in this pit of a just-off-the-Interstate motel, but we didn't, and you have said nothing. 

"Tell me what's happening." And even I'm impressed with my words. Not 'what's wrong' - too judgmental. Not 'what's happening to you' - too personal. 

Noisy shallow breaths from his lips tell me that he can hear me. So, I try again. "Please." I don't beg, but he'll know from my anxious tone that I need an answer. Come on Spooky. Turn on your profiling X-Ray vision and tell me what I need. 

"Have you ever wondered about being mad. About how it might feel. Your own personal brand?" 

"Did you?" 

He throws his hands in the air. "It didn't look like a person at the window. I wished..." 

"You wished what?" Why am I asking, it's not important anymore. 

"I wished that I was mad. In that bed. When that thing came. I wasn't ready to die. You know?" 

Yeah, I know. My mouth won't move. I hope you know, that I know. 

"Only chance was, if I was mad, then I was imagining it." 

Where did your grip on life come from Mulder? Why is being alive so fucking important to you? 

He shifts his focus from the ceiling to the wall light. "Then Scully arrived. And it ran." 

"I'd run from Scully with a gun." 

I almost hear his eyes close. He, almost, laughs. "You're a smarter man than me." 

I look at the scars on his shoulder and wish I didn't know his file this well. I risk reminding him of my presence here now. "I wasn't sure if you wanted company tonight." 

And he tenses. And I realize that he's been on the boundary between fixed smile and tears for quite a while now. He rolls, buries his face in the pillow. "Sorry." 

What is he apologizing for? "Sorry?" 

"Women need too much. That's why I... Why men..." 

Ahhh. Logical conclusion time. He doesn't want me here. He chose me for his escapist run because men don't expect too much. And I'm entitled to even less, because I know him and should know better And I've just fucked up. Big time. 

Where the hell are my clothes? Pants neat over the chair. Shirt in a heap on the floor. Shoes. Nothing else. I came in unencumbered and I leave. I leave how? Intact. 

I dress quicker than I undressed. 

I'm almost out the door before a dark doubt crosses my mind. What if. What if he means he didn't want to ask for too much? So I stop and say, "thanks." 

"Thanks." He says, so pale, I can't tell if it's an echo, a question or a statement. 

So I straighten my shoulders even though he's not looking at me and say, "goodnight." And, I'll have to understand tomorrow because tonight I'm floundering too much 

* * *

Skinner's got a new admin assistant and I guess she's not up with the gossip loop because she looks at me like I'm dinner. And it crosses my mind that dinner might be nice, my chance to play act like I'm still real. But I'm not, I'm Spooky. And that's what I have to be, else I won't make it through this meeting intact. Folie a Deux. 

Her phone rings, Assistant Director Walter Skinner requests the presence of Special Agent Fox Mulder. Quick smile, I play act straightening my collar and tie and wink at her for confirmation that I got the tidy up job done right. She nods and smiles back at me. Which I guess is good, it indicates I haven't quite lost my ability to perform on demand. The AD awaits. Spooky needs to go to work. 

Best to wait until ordered to sit, nothing worse than getting in trouble for disobeying an order that hasn't even been given. He seems startled by the formality, waves me to the seat. Good, much better that if one of us looks disorientated, it's him rather than me. 

"I've spoken to Agent Scully." 

Of course you have, I know that. You can't throw me off balance that easily. 

"She's not sure what she saw." 

So? I'm not sure what I saw. How does that help? 

"You're discharged from hospital?" 

I'm sat here aren't I? 

"What did you see?" 

He's starting to look angry with my silence. And I guess I shouldn't be surprised. But I have to be careful. It's a fine line I'm waking. One side, there's a badge and a gun. Other side, there's valium shots and straps on your wrists. "When?" 

"At the hospital." 

Shit, he's sweating. Not literally of course. But hell, I play truth or dare for a living. I can spot a stress reaction without a lie detector. I've got the edge but I've got to play this tight. "An intruder." 

"Describe him." 

He didn't pause for breath, he'd prepared his follow up question at the same time as he prepared his lead. Now he's trying to unbalance me by changing the questioning rhythm. He'll want to play good cop/bad cop next. 

OK. I'll play. Answer and supplementary answer and unasked for commentary in one shot. "It was dark, I was on medication. I didn't have such a clear view as Agent Scully. I'm a less reliable witness." 

"And in that man's office?" 

"I told you what I saw." 

"A monster?" 

Not that easy. I'm not going to let you get ahead of me. Any revelations will be offered strictly at my pace. "That you couldn't see, sir." 

"Make this easy for me." 

"I can't. It isn't." Well, it isn't. This hurts. I could have died because I saw that thing. 

"I'd like to be able to withdraw the suspension, but I need to know what happened." 

He's decided to give me another chance. OK, I'll take it easy. Yes, sir - we're all humans here. But not too easy. "You've seen my report." 

"Do you think this man, Pinkus, will kill again?" 

"Yes." 

Come on, Skinner. You know it's time to give me my badge back. 

His hand is heading for the drawer. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe slow. Don't react until I know for sure, don't want to confirm his suspicions by looking over eager. My wallet, he flicks it open and it's best if I don't swallow, I might make a noise and that might distract him. My gun joins my wallet on the desk and he pushes them in my general direction but says nothing. 

So I have to watch and wait. Are there strings attached? Is he offering them or merely indicating that they are available if I say the magic words? 

He nods. I don't know why he's had to stop talking, but hey, a nod is good. And I let my heart start beating again. 

Get the badge first, only the seriously paranoid need to rush to pick up a weapon in an FBI AD's office. Badge didn't take long to tuck away. Did the trick nicely though, my fingers are already moving easily again as I slide them to find the familiar shape on the desk. Automatic pilot says I have to check it before I put it away. Ahh. Don't actually need to check, I know that weight and it's wrong. 

Skinner has closed the desk drawer, he obviously thinks he's given me what I need. Shit, shit, shit. Think. Don't panic. Think. It may be a mistake. If I open my mouth to ask if it's a mistake, the tremble might show in my voice. Ask the question without asking. Show him the problem, see if there's a simple solution. Release the clip, easy, fingers don't need help from my over eager brain, they know how it's done. 

He can see the empty clip. Now, all I can do is wait. 

His hand heads back to the drawer. Breathe steady, best not to look too anxious. He hands me the cartridges and I feel like kissing them or him. Wonder how long a suspension I'd get for that little slip up? 

Steady, steady, don't rush, don't fumble. Reload complete. Clip in place. Gun in holster. 

Shouldn't take pleasure in such a crude thing. Relax, that's better. Now, say something. "Thank you, sir." 

He fidgets, guilty or nervous, he has something more to say or do. What? 

"We should talk." 

We should? We can. But not with you as an Assistant Director and me as the Agent most likely to get put back on anti-psychotic drugs. We can, but not if the Sword of Damocles is hanging over my head. 

His hand's back in the drawer. What a drawer, it's a veritable Pandora's box of surprises. The card bears the name of a nice, quiet, dark bar. Suitable, very suitable. His fingers are having trouble hiding his doubts. Worse than when he gave me the ammo back. An invitation for more than just a little chat? No way. Way? 

OK, message received and understood. "Is that all, sir?" 

"For now, Agent Mulder." 

A shiver of anticipation flutters along my spine and I tell it shut up because expectation is what leads to disappointment. Expect nothing, it's less depressing that way. Jesus, you idiot, take it easy. Just get out of the room without blowing your cover. 

* * *

This is so stupid. So stupid to be here in the first place. So stupid to be standing here in the dark not capable of making the next move. All I have to do is go over there. Have a beer. Tell him I'm fit for duty and we can both go home. He'll feel better. I won't feel any worse. I shouldn't have agreed to come. Agreed? I didn't actually say yes, he didn't exactly state a time or a date. 

A date? There's a word to conjure with. Is that what I'm scared of? 

Spineless is not my favorite condition. OK. A vodka, plenty of ice for me and whatever he's drinking for him. Good job. At least I managed to do the order at the bar without screwing up. 

Well the drinks seem to have got an OK reception. Maybe I can risk me. 

He looks disoriented by my arrival. "Spooky," he mumbles. I have a feeling that I wasn't supposed to hear that. 

What the hell, we needed an icebreaker. "You know, I don't have to come here to be insulted." 

"Right, you can go anywhere and be insulted." 

OK, that's the first inch of ice broken, now what about the next few hundred miles? 

Try getting down to business to start the thaw. "I won't lie about what I saw." 

"I don't need you to lie about what you saw. It's what was actually there that concerns me." 

You're good Skinner, but if you want to talk philosophy, let's go. "Physics or metaphysics?" 

"The truth?" 

"We experience the world through our senses. If our senses supply inadequate data, our brain attempts to make sense of it." 

"Did Scully tell you that?" 

That question wasn't just AD speak. Scully, not Agent Scully. If it wasn't for the nervousness in his eyes, I would even think that he was making a joke. 

The best jokes are serious. "She told me if I lay quiet in the restraints, for long enough, I might get better." 

He looks like I just hit him. "She told me that she saw something, but didn't know what." 

"Yeah. That sounds like the thing I saw." 

Ahh, I got the note right that time, he sees the joke. He looks less nervous as he replies. "Sounded better coming from her." 

Good, there's a lightening in his voice. A reward then, a toast to his his new found levity. "Touche." 

I'm too tired for wordplay and cat and mouse games. And if I don't make a move then nothing will happen and I can't face being nothing tonight. I should have picked up his admin assistant, she didn't know that I'm nothing. Oh hell, I can't believe I'm thinking like this. Desperate. 

Too desperate not to try. It's OK, Skinner. I won't force you to reject me. Subtlety is a habit. I'll make the offer and you can pretend that you didn't notice. I slide my hand along the table, too close to his. Invade his space. 

"I asked her if you were OK." 

I don't understand. Scully, I guess, is the her. After all there's a certain shortage of hers apart from her. I lean my head to ask for clarification. 

I'm relieved when he starts talking again. "When you went back to Chicago. I asked her if you were OK." Don't stop, I want to know. "She said you were fine. Then, when I asked her about the autopsy you had scheduled, she seemed surprised." 

No shit, Sherlock. No point lying. "She had already refused to do it." 

I recognize that move, that tightening of the shoulders, that set of the jaw, I've been here before. "So you scheduled her anyway?" He says. 

Reply fast because I can have that sort of discussion in his office, but no way am I having it here. "I've learned my lesson." 

He flinches, a look of horror crosses his face and I realize that he's not just my boss, but that he's still trying to be, at least, my boss, our boss. "Maybe, I should...." 

Hell no, maybe you shouldn't. Not in a million years do I want you to umpire between me and Scully. Absolutely not. This stops here. 

Shock tactics. I let my hand rest on his and shake my head. And if that doesn't tell him to drop it, then he's not as good a detective as I think he is. And he stops and waits for me to speak and I guess I should be relieved because it looks like I'm still up with the pace when it comes to profiling. 

So, I speak first. "I think she learned something too." 

He nods and his eyes pause when he looks at my hand resting on his. OK, the emergency is over and I'll back off. But I won't withdraw. The offer's still open, if he wants to see it. My hand slips back to the table, close but without touching. 

He sits still, not withdrawing, not pressing forward. Leaves it to me to change the subject. Sure. I'll change the subject. 

I sit back in the chair. "You know, water really is blue. We just get confused because usually we only see thin slices of it. And when it looks blue that's just the sky reflecting. But the thing is, it really is blue. How stupid is that? Being a thing that no one can see?" 

Oh yeah. That worked. The first look of confusion comes and goes, gets replaced by bemused. Bemused gets replaced by curious. Curious is good. There's this tiny sparkle of excitement in those warm brown eyes. I let the sparkles grow, make sure that there's a fire starting. Oh yeah. The sparkles feed. Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't want to go home alone tonight. 

Gently does it. But definite, no room for doubt in what I'm offering. He can say no, or if he's playing at letting me down easy he can suggest another drink. "Are you ready to leave?" 

"Giving orders, Agent Mulder?" 

"If you like, sir." 

OK. No point debating the details. We'd just talk ourselves out of the whole idea. Not my place. Between the bugs, the surveillance and the hole in the ceiling I really don't think of my place as a venue for anything. 

Skinner's? Well maybe, but why risk it. 

Simpler to run away. Not nicer, not prettier. Tonight is about scoring points for neutrality and I hope, for privacy. But no points for aesthetics or personality. And I wish that it wasn't like this. But this is what it's like. So either we run away for a night together or we go to our own homes alone. 

Calm down. Where's my car? He approves my plan without comment. 

A quiet motel on the road to nowhere and I wonder what the hell I'm doing here. I'm ashamed of how naturally lying comes to me as I hand him a spare suit from the trunk and I have to smile to apologize for the crassness. I've got an overnight case with me. The only redeeming feature about it is that this was no special cunning plan, just the usual emergency kit permanently resident in my car. 

Skinner looks nervous. I seem to be running the show, and setting the pace. And I can't avoid the shiver running up my spine. I'm almost too excited to remember to book two rooms. But I do. He twitches a little as I give him the key. I'm glad, that means we're equals and I can let the excitement chase waves of doubt out of me without the fear of total humiliation. 

So I tell it like it is. "I need a shower. So do you." 

He looks at me. No, I need a few minutes away from his eyes and ears. He needs a few minutes. Sharing a bathroom unless you're already ripe for action isn't as romantic a fact as it is a fantasy. 

"I'll see you in fifteen." I lean towards the door to my room and he knows that the next move is up to him. 

"Sure." 

Sure. Oh hell. What am I doing? A badge, a gun and a damn good fucking. Busy day for the Mulder Skinner relationship. I don't think this is going to work. 

I panic my way through the shower. I have no idea what to say to him, what he expects me to do, what he wants from me. It's a long time since I've been this nervous about a first night. But then again, it's a long time since I was this sure that I wanted it to be the first night, not the last. 

OK. I'm clean and dry and my hair responds to the towel and the hairdryer and I can't be bothered to get dressed when my only plan then is to get undressed. Anyway undressing is like sharing a bathroom, it works better in the movies. 

And oh hell, he's here. And I guess I should be wearing more than a motel towel round my waist. 

Starch white shirt, charcoal suit pants, black shoes and no socks. And he looks like dinner and I think if I pay attention to what my body says then my nerves will fade. And he's pleasantly startled by my near nakedness and I'm glad that I took the initiative because otherwise I'd have no idea how to make the next move. 

As it is, I lock the door and slip the chain into place. He looks at me as if puzzled or fascinated or just suddenly aware of what's happening. "No surprises." I tell him. 

And his gaze shifts along my body and I feel every split second pause as he spots places of interest on his journey over my skin. I'm not used to such open appraisal and I'm surprised that he seems to feel the need to look at me like this. It's not as if he hasn't seen me before. I've made sure that he's seen me before. A little seedy vicarious pleasure of mine. And, I always hoped, of his. 

And he suddenly looks guilty. Ah I see it now, he was distracted and now he's remembering the same thing. 

And I know I shouldn't tease but I can't help smiling because it is funny. "I meant that's why I was locking the door." 

He stands there and his mouth opens a little. 

And suddenly I do feel self-conscious. I need to keep things moving, or else I'll panic. And I wish I could remember how to speak, but I don't seem to be up to it. So I wave my hand to suggest that he has too many clothes. 

So much for silent communication! He looks back at me, puzzled. And I get the odd feeling that he wants to do what I want him to, but he doesn't know what I want. Figures. I don't know what I want. 

OK, one thing at a time. "No surprises." 

And I'm grateful that he doesn't need more hints, as I lose the towel. 

I'm just a little in awe, my nerves twist a little more. His muscles flex as he removes his shirt and I'm not sure if I'll be able to watch him rolling up his shirt sleeves in the office, without my brain flicking up images of what happens next. My eyes drift to the bed and I try and plan my next move. And it might have been easier if I'd let myself fantasize about him before now, but I'm careful about that sort of thing. 

It's easier once he's completely undressed. There's a moment of vulnerability in his stance, there's an equality in our conditions. And I know if I don't make my move now, I'm dead in the water. Focus on a detail, the back of his neck looks about right. I let my fingers slide in to check the vertebrae and the special little hollow as spine turns to skull. It looks about ideal so I think I'll test how it tastes. 

Uh hell, he shivered. Walter fucking Skinner shivered when I touched him. OK, good. He's not just naked. He's getting hard. He's not only letting me do this, he's telling me that it's what he wants. And I'm almost too nervous to move. OK, before he starts getting his bearings back let's get him onto the bed. 

Not a difficult maneuver. He's not really that much bigger than me. And I'm faster. And I've got the advantage of surprise on my side. 

And he shivers as he hits the bed. 

Oh fuck, what the hell happened there? Did he bang his head on the wall? Surely not. His hand got twisted maybe? It doesn't really take a lot of pressure to dislocate a finger. Oh hell. "God, I'm sorry, I didn't hurt you, did I?" 

He shakes his head and I start breathing again. 

He grabs my wrists and I'm not sure if I can take that kind of risk and my blood pressure says I can't. I shake my head and slither away, push his hands back over his head where I can see them. Sorry, another night and I would love to play, but not tonight. 

He relaxes and I'm still in charge. I hadn't realized that that was what I needed. Tonight. And of all people to pick, on the night where I have to run the show, it's Skinner, Walter, whoever, Sir. I should check straight back in to the psychiatric ward. Yet he hasn't made any move to stop me. Oh hell, I can see his neck and his Adam's Apple twitches as he swallows. 

Just a little taste, across his throat, licking and nibbling and his head falls back, revealing yet more. I need to preserve this moment. Save up the tastes and the flavors of him, and if I could just hover here, without an obligation to make progress or retreat, I would. 

But I feel his arms wrap around my back and sense that he needs more and needs it now. Which is OK, but I can't stop the shiver betraying my nerves and I'm relieved when he shivers in reply. 

I slither away and suddenly my body demands something that my brain would never have worked out how to ask for. 

He lets me manipulate him. And suddenly I've got his weight resting on me. His feet are on my back somewhere. And his cock is tantalizingly close to my mouth, so I close the gap. From next to no contact to terrifying intimacy and I really am terrified for an instant. Like on the high diving board and waiting, and there's really nothing to be done except to dive. So, I dive and his low groan is my soft landing. 

Funny, it doesn't surprise me that he groans, though I guess a growl would fit better. Oh yeah, now he growls as I shift him and spread his legs wider and my tongue flicks a path over his balls and on and down to where the skin is pink and taut and responsive. 

And if anyone wants to tell me what evolutionary purpose a sensitive anus serves I'll be pleased to listen. But for now I'll just place it in the same category as blue water and assume it serves itself. And he growls, I knew he'd growl. 

I can experiment with the growling, use it as an indicator, getting warmer, getting colder. But my tongue's getting tired and it can maybe use a little help. So, I guess it's back to basics. I stroke his cock and it's funny because I think mine threatened to scream when it lost all hope of getting any attention. 

I slide my fingers over him, waiting for the right growl as I experiment with rhythm and pressure. Better and better. 

I can see his head thrashing from side to side and I know he's close. Which is good because my rhythm is failing and my hand's getting tired and my mouth's going numb. I'm out of practice and he's heavy, magic weight because he gets heavier the longer I hold him. 

A little hotter, a little harder, a little faster. 

Oh hell, the convulsions hit and he has so much energy that I can't resist the impulse to feel it and stay with it. And I'll probably dislocate a shoulder or damage my almost-back-in-working-order left hand. What the hell. Who cares? I want to feel what I've done to him. 

And it feels good. 

There's etiquette and practicality at stake here as well as the minor matter of the screaming indignation of my body. A woman in my arms and I'd wait, listen for the too fast breathing and the hyper-sensitivity to pass or at least wait for her nod of approval. A man and the rules are different. Go slow and he might be asleep before I make my move. Go fast and his muscles may already be relaxed and ready and anticipating. 

So, all things considered, going fast is a really smart idea and I flick him onto his stomach and freeze, because this isn't a man. This is one man in particular, and my fantasies don't tell me what's OK or what he wants. And he tenses and I know the lethargic moment has already passed. And I hear in my head Skinner's best AD voice telling me to get my over-dressed ass in action. And I laugh because the words are so clear in my thoughts and the ambiguous stupidity of them is irresistible to my cloudy brain processes. 

Oh hell, what I really want to do right now is feel every inch of his body. And there's something to be said for being smaller than your lover because I'm not scared of crushing him. I sprawl out over him and as he groans and stretches to accept my weight, I stretch to mimic his new pose. So many points of contact. 

And he laughs and his body shudders with the snorts of his laughter. And my cock gets absolutely the wrong idea about what the wriggling of Skinner's ass below my groin actually means. But, oddly I'm not in a hurry anymore. so I relax and enjoy the glorious novelty of so much contact and so much laughter. 

But he starts to freeze under me and I know it's time to move. If I don't move my nerve will shatter. And there's nothing lost if he says 'no' now, because if I don't move soon it'll be no by default, because my nerve will have gone completely. 

"You're tense." I tell him that. as if he didn't know. Maybe his reply will tell me what he wants, what I can have. 

No words return from him. OK, I'll have to find out by touch. I let my fingers study his spine while I reach to the bedside table and the 'always be prepared' stock I stashed away earlier. Whatever he wants, a backrub, a goodnight kiss, or me. 

So I've one hand stroking his spine and I've one hand free to play. I drip the lube along the cleft of his ass. And it's odd because it feels like a statement yet I let my mouth play there and it meant only that he leapt under my touch. And he doesn't pull away or scream "that's enough" in my face so I guess it's OK with him. So I slip in a couple of fingers to find out how OK it is. 

"I don't...." He tells me. 

And I almost choke, I stop moving my fingers and try to remember what to do next. "I know." I tell him, stopping dead in my tracks and starting to pull out carefully. 

"No. I mean. I don't normally let..." 

Normally he says. And his voice has this undertone that completes his sentence. I don't normally, but I'll let you. And I let my fingers move in again and I tell him why today is different, "It's a holiday." 

"I'm not usually...." 

Not usually, but today. So, I add finger number three and press in deep and curl my fingers to let him know that I'm really there and that I expect him to enjoy his holiday. 

"S'Okay." I kiss his neck. I should check his collar size. It seems to me that it's just about ideal. My fingers have found this rhythm in his body and I don't know about him but it's sure as hell making me hard. My other hand isn't so good at this game, the splint interferes and there's a dull stiffness there from having had to wear the damned thing all day. 

His ass relaxes round my hand and it's time for me to act, progress or quit. I slip my other hand around his chest as an order for him to raise his body for me. And I'm as delighted as I'm stunned when he shifts onto all fours and I'm impressed that he completes the move without dislodging my busy fingers, as if he likes what they're doing. 

The condom takes me a few seconds and both hands and I'm relying on his relaxation and plenty of lube. I try and get the angle right first time but there's something not quite right and as I push there's something definitely wrong. 

"Fuck." He bites the pillow. 

Hell, I'd like to ignore the evidence but that's not my style. Dazed mind or not. So I back off. If he would rather not, then hell, I've got a good right hand and I can deal with my own problem any time, I'm not a charity case. 

"I'm OK." He says, lying. But there's an offer in his voice and a disappointment in there as well as the lie and I hear the offer and ignore the rest. 

"S'Okay." 

And I go back and start the seduction of his back again. And I focus on the flesh below his ear and the back of his neck, and his knee and the small of his back and the top of his thigh and his shoulder blade. 

And he wriggles below me making it obvious what he wants, where he wants me to touch. And I force my fingers deeper into the flesh of his shoulder. And he pushes his legs further apart and makes sure I can see what he's offering. And now I finally take the hint and three fingers meet no resistance, so I remove them after just one testing push and replace them with my cock. 

And he gasps but he doesn't scream. And his fingers bite the pillow but his mouth just groans and growls and he's breathing and all's well with the world. And I'm inside him and it's what I need. 

I need to lose myself in him, in the movement. I revel in him. Push forward and pull back and breathe and repeat and feel the arching of his back as he presses up to greet me. And this rhythm is intoxicating and I need to get drunk. 

Soft, soft rhythm. Waves lapping on a shore and I love the waves. And I can play in the waves all day without anyone or anything telling me it's wrong to play in the waves. 

He shifts and bucks under me, and I know I should respond. That responding is what a good lover does. But I like the waves. He wants to go fast, use up all the waves in one roar of a rip tide, but that's not me. And tonight, I have to be me and I'm sorry if that's wrong, but that's how it is. 

But despite the fact he's come, or maybe because - who knows? He finds too much energy, and it's up to me to burn it off at the rate that he wants to get rid of it. 

I blow in his ear, he's sensitive there, and I know he'll turn his head and then he'll be mine. I find his mouth and I know the weight and angle of this new position must be compressing his neck but I don't think he cares and nor do I. He's shocked by me. I don't think he expects to be kissed. And he's more shocked by my lips on his, than he was when I licked his ass and he's more shocked by my tongue pushing past his teeth than he is by my cock fucking him. 

He writhes and groans and his head moves, but he's not trying to get away. He's just greedy, trying to make sure that he's getting everything that I'm offering and I'm going to have to apologize because actually he is. So I put just a little more effort into the kiss, make sure that he has no chance to come up for air. He's not struggling so much for new movement now, I seem to have his full attention. He's struggling for breath instead. There's a definite knack to fucking and kissing at the same time. 

I let go of his mouth. 

And he gulps for air like I've just stranded him on the beach. 

And I can't hold back the sudden chuckle as I congratulate myself on how well my little scam worked. You can't try speeding up the rhythm when you haven't got the oxygen to fuel it and I'm sorry if it's unsporting of me to burn off your excess fuel, lover. But that's the kind of bad sport I am. 

But there are things I should be doing that I can't do, so I really should try to be honest. 

"Touch yourself." 

He seems puzzled by my words. Then I see him shift his eyes to analyze my performance. Don't. Don't please. Don't. Bad enough that I can't lend you a hand right now because only my right can take any weight. I don't need you to start remembering who I am, what my job is. 

He finally moves to touch his cock and I can feel the ripple of relief and pleasure kick through his body. 

Krycek only has one arm. Where the fuck did that thought come from? Oh hell, move faster, run the bastard out of town. 

Flying is a state of mind. And it's time to fly. You just have to move fast enough for long enough and you can fly. 

When they strap you down, you can't move, you can't fly. 

When the drugs kick in, you just float, you can't fly. 

And I need to fly. Fast enough for long enough and you can fly. 

He's flying too. Good. Flying's good. 

The trouble is, in the end it has to end and we're almost at the end. I can feel those shudders, those blissfully vicious convulsions of his. 

And I guess it's time for me to land before he crashes. So, I hit the ground running and it's hard and heavy. And it's hot and cold as the shudders chase through me and my eyes slam shut and my breathing fails, because after the flying comes the freefall. 

Beautiful. A couple more minutes. Then I'll move before he decides to. Etiquette. I don't really want the indignity of being thrown off his back and out of bed by having him recover before me. 

I unravel myself from his body. 

The trouble is. I'm a little squeamish really, just a little too fastidious, though I doubt my refrigerator agrees. Anyway, I need to clean up before I'll rest. 

A plastic evidence bag to dispose of the record of our activity. I hate my paranoia. 

A thirty second shower to freshen me up. 

I don't bother to dress, I don't feel like wearing clothes in bed tonight. Ironic, in my own apartment I usually go to sleep just about fully dressed. Here in a bland little no-name motel, I'm naked. 

He drifts past me like a ghost and I don't know whether to avert my eyes or to smile and say hello. Suddenly I realize what we've done and I try to think what it means and I can't quite think of anything. Is he embarrassed? Hell, I'm embarrassed. But him? He's the boss, my boss. He must be worried about the morning. 

Oh hell, he wouldn't would he? He won't go all honor bound and decide to transfer me to a new AD? I can't. I can't keep explaining, justifying. I could have been dead because no one believed me. And that was with Skinner and Scully on the case. Even the people I trust, the ones who know me, still reckon I sound insane. Strangers would have killed me for sure. 

Don't run away from me. Please. I know this was one of my worst ideas ever, but please. Let me off the hook, don't ditch me and transfer me like I'm normal, like I'm just some other FBI man in a suit, who you picked up in a bar. 

He's taking his time in there. That's OK, he needs more time. For things. Wish I wasn't so fucking squeamish, I'd let myself list, analyze and time the tasks if I wasn't so fucking squeamish. 

I can hear him opening the door. Don't panic, don't panic him. Hell. Now what? Just come to bed, or go. But tell me that nothing's changed. Please. 

I see him trying to get dressed, and he's trying not to look at me, and I'm trying not to care. But I need to know that everything's OK. That life can go one. Like before or different, but on. 

He pulls a Kleenex from his pants and pretends that he hadn't planned to get dressed. Which if I hadn't seen the box in the bathroom I might believe, but I'm an FBI agent and details like that tend to stick even when I'd sooner ignore them. He places his pants neatly over the chair back. 

Hell, he's not planning on wearing them to work tomorrow is he? Sure, I'll buy it. I've at least got clean clothes with me. But I don't think he'd be able to fasten the collar of one of my shirts even if I leant him one. 

He's debating staying the night and I'm making plans for morning. Fuck. What the hell's wrong with me? Maybe, this is part of his standard MO for being polite to one -off lovers or maybe playing with the clothes is some sort of displacement activity and he'll wait some decent interval and then leave. I don't know what the hell to say to him. 

He slides into the bed beside me, and I don't understand. He leans towards me and I try to give him more room to settle into the bed. It's not that big a bed and he's a big man. 

He looks at me and I'm not sure what to say. Don't fire me. The next boss who gets me blasted full of valium may not be so understanding as you. So please, don't ditch me. I'm not expecting anything more from you because of tonight, but please don't take away what I already had. 

"Please." He says. 

And I guess that's a question. And I guess he's asking for a status report. "S'Okay." 

Oh hell, it's not OK, not even close. I can't lose you. And after tonight, maybe it's not a choice. I shouldn't have done this, not with you. It should have been a stranger. You know. But I was so fucking scared. And my judgement is so off and I could tell you about stress reactions. You know how many points I could score on a standard stress assessment right now? I got it wrong coming to you tonight, but don't punish me for it tomorrow. 

His voice is so soft. "Tell me what's happening." 

He's good, careful choice of words, I admire that. Trying not to make me feel guilty or exposed. And I wish I wasn't quite so out of breath because then I might be able to talk to him. 

And I'm too slow to reply and he says. "Please." 

Oh hell. Tell him about how I got here, so he can understand why it was an accident and why I don't expect or demand new rights. Try. "Have you ever wondered about being mad? About how it might feel? Your own personal brand." 

"Did you?" 

He seems to know. He seems to understand exactly which narrow little loop of film keeps re-running through my brain. "I saw something at the window. I wished..." 

"You wished what?" 

Good little detective question, checking progress, sir. I respect that. "I wished that I was mad. In that bed. When that thing came. I wasn't ready to die. You know." And it hurt, to have to want madness over truth. But what the hell, I've wanted to believe that my nightmares aren't real before. So why be ashamed this time - just because he knows how much it almost cost me to be sane and yet to see. "Only chance was, if I was mad, then I was imagining it." 

People tell me I have a vivid imagination, which may be true, but there are things I don't like to imagine. "Then Scully arrived. It ran." 

"I'd run from Scully with a gun." 

Good one, I remember why I don't mind being alive. I'm so cheap. Tell me a joke and it's enough to remind me to try. "You're a smarter man than me." 

He scans the scar on my shoulder, then tries to avert his eyes. There's no point. Despite external appearances I am actually good at this detective crap, I saw his instinctive move a mile off. 

I leave it to him to continue the conversation and he obliges. "I wasn't sure if you wanted company." 

Hell. What's that to do with anything? Shit. Now, I've really fucked it up. He thinks I'm making him listen to my confessions. He thinks that he's under some sort of obligation to stay. Oh fuck. And I can't let him see my reaction so I roll into the pillow and hide, like that'll do me any good. "Sorry." 

"Sorry?" He says. Puzzled, still investigating. 

I understand what you're scared of, that's why I don't... Normally... Do anything like this... And why when I do... So, I understand not to talk like this, not to demand too much. "Women need too much. That's why I...Why men..." 

He's fast. I'll give him that. Into his clothes and just about out the door before the dent has gone from his side of the bed. 

And I'm thinking about breaking down. But he pauses in the doorway and looks back. And I think maybe he's thinking about breaking down, too. "Thanks." He says softly and the words freeze, unlikely in the air. 

"Thanks," I try to say. And he nods. 

But, I won't make assumptions. I don't make assumptions. I'm the one who needs to know. And if nothing bad happens tomorrow at work. I'll work on it. I'll just assume that it's OK. That he knows that nothing of tonight will come back to haunt him. That I'll make no demands. That I'll never ask. 

And he stands at the door and says, "goodnight." 

**END**

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